


To Death

by doctormissy



Series: Prompt Fills and Challenge Entries [11]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Q, Canon-Typical Violence, Carnival, Day of the Dead, Drinking, First Kiss, M/M, Mission Fic, Movie: SPECTRE (2015), Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-13
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-10-18 12:32:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10616994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctormissy/pseuds/doctormissy
Summary: What if Bond showed M's video to Q instead of Moneypenny?They go to Mexico to assassinate Sciarra and find out what is going on together, and things don't end up exactly the way they did when Bond was alone.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Tumblr's Fandom Writing Challenge. The prompt was date night + carnival, and SPECTRE was the only thing I could think of.

Q returned home from a very exhausting, tedious day at work, bearing the image of a steaming hot cup of tea in his mind. He has been looking forward to one since the moment he left his lab, and now he could enjoy it at last.

Only—he found his flat’s door open by a cranny as he approached it with a key in his hand. He panicked. His other hand automatically reached for a pen with a mechanism that could shoot poisonous darts if the right button is pressed. He always kept it in the front pocket of his bag.

He narrowed his eyes and proceeded with utmost caution. There had been an intruder in his flat, and maybe still was. He had to be ready. One slow step at a time, he approached the door and opened it; it emitted a creaky sound. Whoever was inside must have heard it.

Pointing the dangerous pen in front of him, he entered the foyer. No visible damage had occurred in there, but there was no sign of his furry friends, either. When he listened carefully, he could hear a female voice coming from the living room.

Though, he had a glimpse he had heard that voice before. But that was impossible, because that woman was—

Q neglected all of the previous cautiousness and rushed to the source of the noise. He nearly forgot to breathe.

The door between the living room and the kitchen was open ajar. He burst through it, and came to an immediate halt when he sighted the figure standing in front of the telly.

Why wasn’t he surprised to see 007 in there?

However, he was surprised by one different thing: the reason why it was so, that is to say. Well, it was two things, in fact—that, and whom he could see on a video tape. 

M. His M. The silver-haired iron lady just as he remembered her and very much alive. It was merely a tape, but his brain was suddenly flooded with memories. She was telling Bond about an unfinished business; giving him instructions.

Bond acknowledged Q’s presence without moving by a bit. “M’s given me work. I’m going to Mexico,” he said matter-of-factly, without a twitch of his face. He did not add any explanation so as to why he had gone to his flat and not his fucking own. “And I need your help, Q.”

 

* * *

 

 

Bond needed his help. His. He trusted him enough to show him a secret recording M had bequeathed to him and him only; he trusted him enough to ask for his help with an unauthorised, off-record mission in bloody Mexico. Q figured he should feel honoured—but in reality, he had mixed feelings about it, because doing what Bond had asked him to would require going against the new M’s orders, and his own protocols. And it would require  _ flying _ to boot.

Was he truly going to do this? Q asked himself before he knocked on the door and entered M’s office. Was he truly going to lie to M, to everyone, for the sake of a stupid, impossible crush?

He took a deep breath. Yes was the answer to that, apparently.

M was sitting at his desk, dealing with some paperwork. Having heard the door click as it closed, he looked up. The bags under his eyes gave away the sleepless hours he had tortured himself with whilst ordering the opposite to his employees.

“Yes, Quartermaster?”

“Good day, sir,” began Q. He cleared his throat before he continued. “I have a request to ask.”

He got this. He had prepared the speech and the impossible yet plausible stories that came with it. He had nothing to fear. Right?

M nodded, propping him to continue. “Sir, it’s my brother, Daniel. He’s been injured, and he’s got no one to take care of him, which is why I’d like to ask you for a week off.”

M raised an eyebrow. He closed the file he has been reading. “Is that it? Well, in that case, consider yourself dismissed, Quartermaster. I thought you were asking for a budget rise or something.”

Well, that went easier than he’d thought. Although it  _ was _ true that he’d saved for about six months of leave he hadn’t used, and however he couldn’t see inside Mallory’s head, Q was certain he was happy to release his overworking Quartermaster without persuasion for once.

And speaking of money: “Since you’re mentioning it… Q-Branch could really use a budget rise too, after the recent development of events…”

“Dismissed, Q!” M raised his voice.

“Yes, sir. And thank you.”

Q backed out of the office. He stepped towards an unexpected and most likely unpleasant adventure he might really regret later. If there even is a later.

 

* * *

 

Why was he doing this, again? It certainly wasn’t for the sake of sanity and self-preservation; those factors were forgotten in the presence of Double-Ohs.

Speaking of which, there was one currently lounging on his sofa with a cat on his stomach. The smug bastard must have thought he owned the place, by the looks of it. The overly casual behaviour made Q nervous and slightly irritated.

“007,” said Q. He came to the sofa, holding a rifle in one hand. The other one was on his hip. “I hope you do realise I had to sneak into my own lab and get past a certain nosy brunette, in and out, in order to take this unauthorised firearm for the purpose of your little secret operation.” Bond did not seem to register any of those words. Q frowned. “It’s the only thing you’ve got. Don’t destroy it.”

“Wrong, Q,” Bond said, quiet. “I’ve got you, do I not?” He smirked, and turned his head to him.

“Alas,” he said, “but I outrank you, 007, and therefore you must obey my orders. And I am certainly not a piece of equipment.” He laid the rifle on the coffee table behind him and put both his arms akimbo.

The smirk on Bond’s face widened. Q had to look away, because he liked the way he looked more than what would be appropriate. “You work with one.”

“But you need me,” Q delivered a quick reply. He went to take his medical kit from the kitchen.

Bond cocked his head. He had to raise his voice if he wanted for Q to hear him. “And you need someone to pull the trigger for you.”

“In theory, I do not, 007,” Q shouted back. “Remember I could do as much damage as you, and far beyond. I could ruin their bank accounts and data files with one finger.”

“I could do that better.”

Q came back. “Don’t push your luck, 007. And get off my sofa.”

 

* * *

 

His messenger bag hung over his shoulder. He carried no other luggage than that, unlike Bond, who had a trolley suitcase that let everybody in a 500 metres radius know they were coming.

He did not need more than that: more than his laptop, his mobile, passport, wallet, some spare clothes, some gear in case something went wrong, and a toothbrush. It was that simple. It was supposed to be that quick. He hoped it would be. Perhaps he shouldn’t, because he knew the history of 007’s operations all too well, but he didn’t have much of a choice than to swallow a sickness pill, and his fear with it.

And move forward in the passport control queue by two spots. It was nearly their turn.

Butterflies flew around in his stomach. He did not know if it was because of the upcoming flight or Bond’s presence. He did not desire to know. He just moved, clutching the passport of a British citizen in his hand.

 

* * *

 

 

“Can I get you something to drink or eat, gentlemen?” the nice, dark-skinned stewardess asked them with an accustomed broad smile.

Q was too dizzy to think about his stomach, or even register the question properly. They were merely two hours into the journey, but he had calculated every possible danger or breakdown that might possibly occur along the way three times.

Bond, however, “A bottle of champagne, please. Two glasses.”

That man will be the death of him one day. With this wild approach, it might come sooner than anyone would like.

“Of course,” the woman said. She moved on to take orders from a couple sitting behind them. There were only nine people with a first-class ticket.

Q cast an incredulous glance at Bond. “If you are attempting to get me drunk so you could hit on the stewardess, good luck with it.”

“I am doing no such thing, Q. I wouldn’t dream,” the Double-Oh said innocently.

“Ha.” As if he was supposed to believe that.

Q turned away from Bond and faced the window instead. The sky was beautifully clear, and clouds stretched out beneath the plane like fluffy, white blanket of mountains. It provided at least some comfort for his eyes and mind.

Since he already happened to be in such height, he took his mobile and took a few hazy pictures. The view was breathtaking, both figuratively and literally.

Later on, when the stewardess returned with the champagne, and Q took one or two gulps out of politeness, the perpetual hum of the engines managed to lull him to sleep.

When his head fell onto Bond’s shoulders during a turn, he did nothing to move him back into the original position. He sat in absolute peace, reading a detective novel. When another two hours passed, the words in his book began to blur. He was tired, so he rested his head against Q’s and breathed in the lemony scent of his shampoo.

 

* * *

 

 

It was easy to blend in the crowd at that particular time of year: it was the Day of the Dead tomorrow, and thousands of tourists travelled to Mexico to join the celebrations. Not one man was too outstanding. They passed through the airport smoothly.

It was dark when Q and Bond arrived at the four-star hotel. It was in the centre of Mexico City, a little too posh to Q’s liking. This was Bond’s world, not his. But he could adapt.

According to what Q had dug out of the dark depths of the internet, Sciarra will be arranging a ‘business deal’ tomorrow, in a flat a block away from the hotel. The parade will provide a great cover and alibi: to both him and 007.

For now, the two of them could just wait.

Each of them had a separate suite, thank God. Q did not know how he could possibly deal with sleeping with the abomination in one room. Having him sitting next to him for the short amount of time they had before heading to their rightful quarters and calling it a night was fairly enough.

Q unzipped his bag and fished out a small piece of tech. An earpiece.

“I’m giving you this so we could stay connected. Do not—I repeat, do  _ not— _ crush it, throw it away, or drown it in an alcoholic drink of any kind, please. We don’t have an endless supply.”

Bond accepted it. Their fingers touched briefly. “Yes, sir,” he said and added a half-smile.

Q, nonetheless, uttered a micro sigh. Knowing Bond, the odds of never seeing the earpiece again were too high at all times.

“That’s all. Now, I would kindly ask you to retire to your suite and not stain my sight with your presence for the next few peaceful hours.”

 

* * *

 

It was a rough wake up. Q’s mobile wouldn’t stop yelling at him, heat licked at his feet, and when he finally brought himself to unlock his eyes to shut the alarm up, he saw 007 sitting in an armchair in front of him. Q flinched. For how long was he watching him sleep?

“Good morning, Q,” he said. “I’ve brought you breakfast in bed.”

Q sat up with a grunt. He rubbed sleep and rheum out of his eyes and reached for his glasses.

“What have you done this time, hmm?” he replied. He gazed at the other half of the queen-sized bed. A tray with a fresh glass of orange juice, two warm croissants, and some pineapple lay on top of the sheets indeed.

“Why immediately assume I’ve done something bad, Q,” Bond said. His tone bore a tinge of reproachfulness. “Perhaps I wanted to do something for you. Or perhaps I’ve poisoned your juice so I could chase after my personal vendetta without your responsible arse in the way.”

“So help you God if you dare to be foolish enough to try that, 007,” Q retorted, last traces of sleep worn off. His senses have fully woken up.

He reached for the tray, despite the disapproval of the ‘nice gesture’ from the agent. He was famished—all he had eaten yesterday was a sandwich at the airport and later an apple. Just to be certain, he smelled the juice. It looked and smelled alright, deliciously fresh, even. He took a sip and ate his breakfast in silence.

He merely asked Bond whether he had eaten and if he had checked the environs.

To his surprise, Bond lifted a plastic bag from the ground and emptied it on a coffee table. There were two skull-shaped masks, two black top hats, and two black, matching suits with white imprints of bones.

“First rule of undercover: blend in.”

 

* * *

 

 

“To have the perfect aim on Sciarra, you must get on the roof of the opposite building, Bond. I think you should access it from the top floor…” Q said. The last words faded into pondering silence.

“Can you hack into one of the rooms?” Bond was buttoning his shirt. Q’s suit was already on; he tried hard not to stare at 007’s bare chest, and the bastard noticed.

“I am the Quartermaster of MI6 for a reason, am I not?” Q smirked. He opened another window and started typing quickly. “Done. You need to leave in twenty minutes.”

Bond put on the jacket. “Excellent.”

“Now, there is a CCTV camera in the flat. I’ve counted four armed men standing guard, and the heat scan showed me an unpleasant surprise in the form of an explosive ready to go off the moment you fire the first round. Someone needs to be on the inside, Bond, and that someone has to be me. You can’t go in.”

Bond’s face stiffened. He blinked.

“Please, don’t tell me you are worried, 007. I know how to fire a gun if need be,” Q responded. Though, deep down in his stomach, something twisted with an impossible hope he perhaps might truly be worried for him.  _ Him _ .

“I know you do. But that is dangerous, Q.”

He knew. It had come to the point he started to regret his life choices. One of them was the decision to be insanely brave and do something he’d never thought of even considering.

“You’d asked for my help. I am helping you. I don’t need a failed mission or an agent down,” Q argued. “There is no valid argument that could convince me otherwise, which you are, of course, aware of. Besides, I happen to have invented a device that will disarm the bomb remotely; they won’t even see me coming.”

Bond stepped closer to Q. He contemplated putting his arm on his shoulders; in the end, he did not do it. “Be safe, Q.”

“Always,” Q said. “Unlike a certain somebody.”

 

* * *

 

 

Bond jumped over the rails on the balcony and quickly strode along the ledges. He put the radio in his ear; the connection between him and Q was restored after a few minutes of silence.

“Q?”

“I hear you loud and clear, 007,” the man said, quiet. “I am in position. The bomb is deactivated. Sciarra and his business partner have arrived.”

Bond readied his rifle. He put the silencer on, stepping over a gap between two buildings. He was nearly in position, too. Sun shone on his face, and he had to narrow his eyes.

He  _ was _ worried about Q. He wasn’t a field operative, and missions like these easily go tits up. He has had the experience. If something happens to him in there, if they discover him—

“I’ve eliminated two guards. There are only two now, but I can’t get to them unseen. I’d have to shoot,” he reported.

What secret has Q been hiding from the world? Bond thought he should never dare underestimate the Quartermaster again. That did not lessen on the worry, though.

“Wait, Q.” Bond came to the edge and hunkered down. He could see Sciarra and the other man standing in front of the window as though they were waiting for him to fire; as though they knew.

Sciarra showed the other man a shining ring on his finger, and Bond could swear he had seen one of those before.

 

Q was inside, so he could hear every word of their conversation clearly. They both spoke Spanish, but he had no problem understanding.

_ ‘Welcome, Signor Sciarra. I trust you had a pleasant journey.’ _

_ ‘Do you have it?’ _

_ ‘Yes. It's over there.’ _

_ ‘When do we blow the stadium?’ _

That kind of business deal, then. He pricked up his ears instead of shooting: one of the mission’s purposes were discovering their plans. Q was recording it, he knew, but either way, killing the men at the moment wasn’t an option.

_ ‘This evening at six.’ _

_ ‘And the flight out of here?’ _

_ ‘All arranged.’ _

_ ‘And then what?’ _

_ ‘Then I visit The Pale King.’ _

The Pale King? Bond hesitated. He has never heard that name before, but he sensed it was crucial for the operation. Someone no lesser than the head of whatever convoluted organisation that connected all the criminal minds MI6 have been after for the past years.

_ ‘A toast, my friend.’ _

_ ‘To Death!’ _

“Bottoms up,” Bond said. He targeted the man. Two bullets escaped the gun barrel and crossed the distance between him and Sciarra in high speed. They broke the glass and embedded in the men’s heads. The shots were clear.

And so were the rounds Q fired to dispose of the guards who were ready to eliminate Bond the second they’ve registered the assault. He had wasted three bullets.

He was a killer now. Bond had brought him to his world, the world of manipulation, pretence, surveillance, and murder without really thinking of what consequences might his ill-considered, often premature actions have.

But it was his choice; he couldn’t have stopped him. Q can well damn obstinate when it came to fulfilling duties. He was entitled to such decisions. Bond could do nothing but go along with it.

 

* * *

 

 

They walked through the carnival parade, unrecognisable in their masks. They strode fast enough to get to the hotel in time but slow enough to remain inconspicuous. They sought refuge in the shadows at the walls, where weren’t many people and no one looked. The weapons were safely tucked in the bag Q was carrying.

“Have you recorded everything?” Bond asked, voice stone cold, emotion hidden behind a shell of sobriety—and the mask. He wanted to be certain, although Q was far from an amateur.

Q did not avert his gaze from the crowd encircling them. “Yes, and I’ve extracted all data from Sciarra’s laptop while you were busy on the roof.”

Bond made a brief pause. “Can I ask you a question, Q?”

“I suspect you will anyway, so I as well might say you can, 007,” Q replied.

“Why haven’t you complete the training and become a spy? You’re as good as a Double-Oh, Q.” This question had occurred to Bond before, on multiple occasions, but had never gathered enough interest to ask. Having seen him in action just confirmed him in his professional surmise.

“Perhaps,” said Q, “but I think you’d find out I prove to be more seminal on the position of the Quartermaster. Where would your arse be without me in the lab, hmm?”

“Fair enough.” Q stopped at the crossroads to let some people pass, so Bond had to do so as well. “But that changes nothing about the fact you could be the same genius in the field.”

Q moved on. “Have you just publicly admitted I am a genius, 007?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea of what you’re talking about, mister.”

 

* * *

 

 

As Q’s hotel room’s door clicked closed, he promptly ran to take his laptop. After he took off his mask, he pulled a flash drive out of his trouser pocket and plugged it in. Bond, however, had a different idea about how to spend the rest of their time in Mexico. Decoding and analysing information, and subsequent dispatch to MI6 could wait for an hour or two. Especially after what they both has just done.

“Q?” he asked.

“Mm-hmm?” Q was absent-minded. His eyes flitted across the screen.

“We are in Mexico during  _ Día de los Muertos _ , Q, and if someone should celebrate the festival, it’s you and me. Get up and go have some fun.”

Bond’s suit-clad form blocked Q’s field of vision. Q frowned. “I'll take the liberty of assuming my and your idea of fun slightly differs, Bond,” Q replied. His eyes were focused on the files on his computer. “I have work to do, in case you’d failed to notice.”

“Mallory has no idea we are here, therefore he doesn’t need the files,” argued Bond. He leant over the laptop and put his hands on the top of the screen. His tie swung before it and prevented clear sight of the contents.

Q looked up, this time. He shot an annoyed glance at Bond. “But  _ I _ need the files,” he insisted. “There is something bigger than Sciarra going on, bigger than any of us. This—all that’s in here—contains more data than we thought we could ever own, Bond. I cannot even begin to imagine what we could do with the half of it.”

“Then don’t.”

Bond gave the laptop a push and closed it swiftly; Q so-so moved his fingers out of the way on time. He took it and threw it on the bed, behind Q. He held out his hands, expecting Q to take them. He did not.

His heart was close to racing at the moment. He swallowed dry. This was too much to bear. He was trying to order him around,  _ and  _ wanted him to just take him by his tanned, calloused, beautiful hands and go do… whatever he was intending to do?

Apparently, he did, since when Q did not respond, he grabbed him and pulled him up, already heading for the door. He somehow got his hands on the mask Q had taken off, and his own dangled on his elbow. “Since I can’t seem to convince you nicely, Q, we have to do this the hard way.”

He backed out of the room, letting go of Q only to pull the door handle. With a foxy smirk decorating his face, he led them both to the morbidly vibrant carnival parade outside. His moves told Q he knew exactly where he was going.

 

* * *

 

 

Bond offered Q his arm. Q looked him in the face and back, hesitating. The little voice lurking in the subconscious whispered that allowing Bond to play his games wouldn’t be a wise idea and that he might end up in some serious trouble.

But when it came to Bond, he was never particularly good at listening to that voice, was he? So he linked his arm with his, possible consequences be damned.

“Where are we going?” he asked. They weren’t hiding anymore but walking amidst the bustling crowd, on everyone’s sight yet comfortingly anonymous in their costumes.

“I know a place,” Bond answered, tight-lipped. “They make the best  _ carnitas _ in town.”

Q was slightly confused by the statement. “Are you… asking me for a lunch?”

“And a tequila,” he said, still as casual. Q knew what that meant coming from Bond’s mouth.

“Is this a date, Bond?”

_ Do you honestly think you can just say the two of us are going to share some tortilla or whatever that meal is supposed to be and ask me for a drink with that charming smile of yours, if hidden under a skull mask, while we’re on an off-record mission in bloody Mexico and have just murdered six assassins? Oh, of course you do. _

“If you want it to be.” Bond even began to swing in the cheery rhythm of the music around them.

“I…” _Yes_ , his mind offered immediately. “don’t know.”

“Then it is a date, Quartermaster. Will you eat  _ carnitas  _ with me?”

_ So help me Force.  _ “Yes.”

Bond was actually dancing now, dragging Q along with him due to their linked arms. But Q let himself be carried away, this once. There were things to celebrate, after all. Six things lying on the building’s floor amidst pools of their own blood.

 

* * *

 

 

The bartender placed two snifters of neat tequila in front of them. Q and Bond lifted them simultaneously.

“To Death,” said Q, repeating Sciarra’s toast. It was to his death.

Bond added, “To us.”

They drank the strong drink off. Bond ordered another round.

Like Q had said, this man will be the death of him one day—so he might enjoy this day while he still can. He emptied the other glass as well, and did not stop Bond from ordering a third.

 

* * *

 

 

He found the carnival an acceptable form of entertainment in the inebriated state. More than before, anyway, with all worries and embarrassment long thrown away and the threat of a bomb attack having been warded off, he was more apt to dance and move along with the parade through the entire city.

The hat on the top of his head had somehow been replaced by a flower crown James had bought for him. They were holding hands now, open and joyous.

If this was a date, it was probably one of the best dates he has been on. It was with James Bond—he really wanted to laugh at the absurdity of the fact. James Bond.

 

* * *

 

 

James hadn’t even slammed the door to Q’s room, and his shirt was already unbuttoned. Q’s fingers weren’t only skilful with a keyboard; they could make short work of a jacket and a shirt, too, and with ardour that James wouldn’t seek inside the slender body of the boffin.

Q’s mouth was firmly attached to his. The kisses were devouring and hot, and tasting like tequila, but neither of them had that in mind; they were finally each other’s.

They separated for a moment, and James took off the shirt. He threw it on the floor carelessly. Q’s hands were on his chest now, searching, owning, tracing every scar carved into his skin. His lips were pressing a myriad of kisses along his exposed neck.

James slowly navigated them towards the bedroom. Q knocked his shoes off on the way, abandoning them at a chest of drawers. James’ ended up nearby. With his hands in Q’s gorgeous hair, he stepped forward and pushed them on the bed. Q lay on his back, and James was on top of him.

They paused for an instant, looking each other in the eye. There was a spark of longing in James’. Q loved that it belonged to him of all people he could have taken to bed that night. Only to him.

James’ lips parted, and Q met him in another eager kiss before he could say whatever he had desired to say. James found his hands. Lacing his fingers with Q’s, he pinned them to the sheets.

 

* * *

 

 

James lay in the middle of the bed. Q rested his head on his chest and listened to his steady heartbeat. The room was dark but a streak of yellow light on the ceiling. It was well past midnight, but the music and cheers of people outside did not seem to cease anytime soon. They would celebrate till the morning and on.

James played with Q’s hair gently with one hand; he couldn’t resist. Every stroke made Q shiver with pleasure. James’ other hand held Q’s. His entire body radiated warmth and warmed Q’s skin and heart.

Q closed his eyes. After a long time, he allowed himself to fully relax, and not just because he was exhausted in entirety.

“What do we do now, James?” he whispered. That question had many meanings. To be completely honest, he was not sure which he’d like to be answered.

“Now we go to Rome.”

**Author's Note:**

> Did you get the London Spy reference? ;)
> 
> Hey, do you want me to continue in the story and rewrite the film completely (as it should have been)? I might if you were interested...


End file.
